


See Right Through You

by Daisy_Rivers



Category: Hamilton - Miranda (Broadway Cast) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-12-25 04:57:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12028590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daisy_Rivers/pseuds/Daisy_Rivers
Summary: You work as an assistant on Daveed and Rafael's tour. You've always had a good working relationship with Daveed. Maybe that's about to change.





	See Right Through You

 

A lot of people think you have a glamorous job, touring with Daveed Diggs and Rafael Casal. Your job title is something vague like “assistant,” and your mom believes that it’s office work, with you wearing nice navy blue pencil skirts and white blouses and saying things like, “Yes, Mr. Diggs,” or “Right away, Mr. Casal.” Your mom’s met them both, and they were really sweet to her, but she’s never actually been to one of their shows or listened to any of their stuff. In all likelihood, that’s a good thing, because she’d probably have a stroke, and you care about your mom’s health.

The reality of your job is that you usually get to the “venue,” as they call it, ahead of the guys, the backup musicians, and the crew. The venue might be a club or it might be a performance hall of some kind. You get there, and the first thing you do is see if anybody lied to you when you were making the arrangements for the show. Do the guys have dressing rooms? They’ll really be napping rooms because it’s not like Daveed and Rafa have to do their hair and make-up, but they do need to sleep. You can manage with one dressing room if it’s absolutely necessary, but you all hate it because the guys keep each other awake and then they complain to you. Also, Daveed says Rafa snores, and Rafa says Daveed snores, and they’re both absolutely right. Then you have to check the electrical set-up. It never occurred to you to become an electrician, but you’d highly recommend that training to anybody who wants to work with a band. You’ve practically done an apprenticeship by now, and you make sure all the outlets are functioning and can carry the current load you use. Then you do a quick inspection of everything else – is there a recent safe occupancy certificate, is the fire inspection up to date, that sort of thing.  If you find a problem, and you do about half the time, your job is to fix the problem before the guys get there. Sometimes that means a couple of phone calls. Sometimes it involves renting a generator. Occasionally it requires you screaming at the owner of the venue and threatening to trash him on Yelp and Twitter. All in a day’s work.

Friday there’s a show at a smallish club in East Podunk. Yeah, that’s a fake name, but you don’t like to be too specific. You get there at the crack of dawn for you, about eleven in the morning. The club’s owner, Jimbo, meets you at the door. He’s a chubby fortyish guy with a comb-over and a rosy face. He’s beside himself with excitement at having booked Daveed and Rafa, and the place is sold out. It’s probably the biggest thing that’s ever happened to him. He’s bouncing and chattering, getting in your way as you crawl around the perimeter of the room testing electrical outlets. You finally stand up and suggest nicely that he put some bottled water in the dressing rooms. “What kind of water do they like?” he asks eagerly. You’re tempted to request some sort of exotic hard-to-find water to get him out of your way, but you take pity on him and say, “Clean. Safe. Cold.” Jimbo takes off saying something about coolers, and you’re left in peace.

The dressing rooms are small, but each one has a new futon in it. You stipulate when you’re negotiating with a venue that each dressing room needs a couch or a futon, and if the guys have to share a dressing room, they need two. Some idiot in Nowhere, Montana (another fake name) once agreed to that on the phone, and then had only one dressing room with a sofa bed in it. “But it’s a queen size sofa bed!” he had explained, as if that solved anything. He ended up paying a huge fine for contract violation, but, hey, he knew the deal. It was all you could do to keep Daveed and Rafa from killing him, you, or each other that night. Not one of your best tour memories.

You all have hotel rooms, of course, that you actually sleep in after the show is over, but the dressing rooms are where the guys catch a nap before a show or rest for a few minutes between sets. Around the time you finish your room capacity and fire inspection checks, Jimbo comes back with ten cases of water and two coolers. Does he think the guys are bringing camels with them? Never mind, he’s trying so hard it’s kind of cute. He puts a cooler in each dressing room and the rest of the water in the fridge in his kitchen. He wants to get everything right, so you tell him it’s all good and go dump your stuff at the hotel and take a shower. You get back to Jimbo’s about half an hour before the vans pull in with Daveed, Rafa, everybody else, and the equipment.

“Is there a bed in my dressing room?” Rafa asks before he even says hello. His eyes are red, and he looks exhausted.

“Yeah, new futon,” you tell him. “Did you get any sleep last night?”

He waves vaguely at you as he crushes out his cigarette in an empty Starbucks cup. “Baby on the plane. Screamed all night. I wanted to open the cabin door and throw it out, but Diggs wouldn’t let me.”

You glance at Daveed who is nodding in agreement. He looks as tired as Rafa.

“Well, I’m glad you kept him from throwing the baby off the plane,” you say to him, rolling your eyes.

“Tough decision, though,” he mutters. “Can you get me some Red Bull?”

“Hell, no, that stuff will kill you. I’ll get you coffee. And there’s water in your rooms, both of you. Hydrate.” You spend half your working life telling these guys to drink water.

You go to get Daveed coffee from the kitchen, but make sure it isn’t too strong and put a lot of milk in it. The last thing he needs is caffeine. There’s still a couple of hours before show time, so he can get an hour’s sleep. You knock on his dressing room door and hear something like “Mmf” from inside so you go in. Daveed is sitting on the futon, arms resting on his knees.

“Coffee,” you say, holding it out to him. “You get one cup. Did you drink any water?”

“Half a bottle,” he tells you, pointing to it on the vanity. He gulps the coffee. “Needs more sugar.”

You just look at him.

“God, Cupcake, you’re so mean to me,” he complains.

“Only for your own good, and don’t call me Cupcake.” You hate being called Cupcake or Sweetie or other baby-talk nicknames, which is why D does it. He smirks at you. You remind him, “You call me Cupcake, I’ll call you Dave.” You even carry out that threat occasionally.

“Sit down,” he says, scrooching over on the futon.

You sit next to him, and he empties his coffee cup in one more gulp. Without commenting, you reach across him and grab the bottle of water off the vanity. “Here, finish this before you go to sleep, or you’ll wake up with your throat constricted.”

He knows you’re right. It’s happened before. He glares at you anyway, gulping the water.

“Rafa asleep?” you ask.

“I guess,” he shrugs.

“Was there really a crying baby on the plane?”

He takes another gulp of water and smiles.

“What were you guys up to?” you ask him.

“We might have been writing stuff. Or just talking.”

“I swear to God, D, when you two are together, you need a keeper. You can’t relax when you’re in the same room – or plane – with Rafa.”

“Sure I can. I’m always relaxed around him. It’s just – we do stuff when we’re together.”

That’s true, and it’s the reason you’re on this highly successful tour. They’re both artistic geniuses, and together, they’re more than the sum of their parts. They create absolutely brilliant poems, songs, raps, pieces of art, whatever you want to call them. They’ve also been best friends since forever, and they practically read each other’s minds, so when they get going on something, it’s like they can’t stop. You suspect that’s what had been going on all night on the plane.

“Where is it?” you ask, and Daveed points to his backpack on the floor. You pull out one of his spiral notebooks that’s folded open and begin reading the last page.

“Shit, this is good,” you say. You don’t understand how genius works. You know that D and Rafa have access to the same words the rest of us do, yet they manage to combine them in ways that nobody has ever thought of before. They say things that make people laugh and cry and fall in love, and think about their lives in new ways. You’re grateful for your small part in it all, and you remind yourself now that your job is to make Daveed get some rest. You put the notebook back in his backpack.

“Lie down,” you say. “You need to take a nap.”

He stretches out obediently on the futon and gives you that irresistible puppy dog look. No man should be allowed to have such beautiful eyes. “Lie down with me for a few minutes?”

He wants that sometimes, just some human contact, to help him relax.

You smile at him. “How old are you, three?”

“Mm-hmm. Come on, Y/N, please.”

“Okay, since you didn’t call me Cupcake.”

You kick your shoes off, and he moves over to make room for you. You snuggle up against him, and it feels good, your head on his shoulder and his arm around you like this. There’s nothing between you, really, but you’re friends, and you like each other, and it’s comfortable to be together like this. You don’t want to fall asleep yourself because you still have things to do, but you know that somebody will wake you up an hour before show time, so you let yourself relax, and you hear Daveed’s breathing get slower and steadier, and you breathe with him and close your eyes.

You wake up to Rafa yelling, “Yo, Diggs!” and throwing the door open. You sit up, rubbing your eyes.

“Whoa, sorry,” Rafael says, his eyebrows up.

“Nap, Rafa, just a nap,” you tell him, putting your shoes on.

“What time is it?” Daveed asks, his eyes still closed.

“Show time!” Rafa yells, in his best Anthony Ramos voice.

“Knew that was coming,” you mutter, and go out to check on the equipment set-up. All is well, and Jimbo is talking excitedly to Kevin, your electrician. He hasn’t officially met Rafa and Daveed yet, and it’s your job to introduce them and make sure everybody says the right thing. When they come out of the dressing room, you drag them over to Jimbo, and they are their usual charming selves. Jimbo can barely contain himself, and keeps shoving at his comb-over as if he still has hair. The guys sign some posters for him and he takes some selfies, and before you know it, the audience starts coming in.

It’s a good show. Most of them are, honestly, and Jimbo has done everything he can to make it a success. D and Rafa give great performances, and if their energy is a little low, you’re  the only one who notices it. This tour is too long, you think. Next time, you’ll do two short ones with a long break in between. Another month and you’ll be done, and then you’ll all scatter for a while and stay in touch by texts and Tweets and Instagram. You miss the guys a lot when you don’t see them every day. Besides, they need you to keep them in line.

When the show is over, they take nearly another hour to talk to fans and sign autographs and take pictures. As usual, there are a few teenage girls who are reduced to tears just by seeing either Daveed or Rafa – probably three to one, Daveed fans, but Rafa is pretty popular too. They are so sweet to those girls, giving them a kiss on the cheek, posing for more pictures. Daveed, as always, is a little shy, a little awkward with his fans, as if he can’t quite believe he’s famous. Rafael thrills a girl by talking to her sister on the phone, since the sister is away at college and couldn’t come to the show. D and Rafa are both really kind people, and they appreciate their fans. For a long time, it had been hard for you to reconcile their explicit and sometimes violent lyrics with their real-life personalities, but, as Rafa said to you once, “Not everything is autobiography.” They don’t have to have lived something to write about it.

The tech guys have packed up the vans and are long gone by the time the final selfie is taken and Jimbo shakes your hand for the last time. You shove the guys, both exhausted now, into your rental car and drive the few miles to the hotel. You get them through check-in and into the elevator, Rafa practically asleep on his feet and D not much better. You’re all on the third floor, so you make sure they’re in their rooms and go to yours.

You’ve barely closed the door when your phone dings.

 **D:** Where r u?

 **You:** In my room, duh.

 **D:** Room #

 **You:** 321, why?

 **D:** omw

He scratches more than knocks at the door and stands there sleepy-eyed when you open it.

“What the hell, Diggs?”

“I want to sleep with you.”

You blink. “I’m sorry, what?”

He walks past you into the room, dragging his backpack, which he drops on the floor against the wall.

“It was nice this afternoon,” he says. “I sleep better with you.”

“Okay.” Why not? You’ve cuddled before, and he’s right, it’s nice. “You’re going to take a shower, though, right?” you wrinkle your nose. Performing is a strenuous physical activity.

He chuckles. “Sure,” he said, and begins taking off his clothes. How sleepy is he? He stops when he gets down to his boxers and grabs your hand. “Take a shower with me?”

“Um …” you can feel yourself blushing. You can feel some other things too, with Daveed standing there in his boxers. It’s not like you’re unaware that you work with one of the hottest guys on Planet Earth, but you’ve tried not to let that interfere with your job or with your friendly working relationship. “What are you talking about, D?” you ask.

He gives you that smile that has been all over the internet for the last few years, entrancing straight women and gay men worldwide. You’re one of those straight women, but you want to be sure you know what’s going on. “You know,” he says, “take a shower, get comfortable, cuddle up, get a good night’s sleep.”

That’s pretty ambiguous. You consider carefully what you might be doing. If D is just a little goofy from being so tired and literally wants to get a shower and go to sleep, are you okay with that? Sure. If he has more in mind, do you object? Oh, _hell_ , no.

“Okay,” you say, and follow him into the bathroom.

You start to pull your tee shirt over your head, and he takes hold of it. “Let me help.”

You stand there and let him take it off, and then he puts his face against your neck and starts kissing, small soft kisses in a line down to your cleavage. “How come you always wear a bra?” he asks, unhooking it.

“Um, because I’m a girl,” you tell him, a little breathlessly, “and I’m not exactly flat-chested.”

“Right,” he agrees. “That’s what Rafa was saying.” He takes your breasts in his hands, his thumbs on your nipples.

“Shit, D,” you gasp, and then, in a different tone. “You and Rafa talk about my chest?”

He gives each nipple a little flick. “Well, yeah. We like it, though, so we say nice things.”

You start to laugh, then catch your breath as he slides his arms around to your back and down so that his hands slip inside your jeans. It’s his turn to gasp.

“Fuck, Y/N, you going commando?”

“Sometimes,” you start, your hands on his shoulders to steady yourself, “there’s no time to do laundry on tour.”

“Oh, I like that,” he murmurs, half to himself.

You help him by unzipping your jeans in the front, and then reach past him to turn on the hot water. You overbalance, and he catches you and pulls your jeans off, and then he bends down to kiss you, his mouth soft but searching, his tongue sliding between your lips. You push your hips forward, not caring at all now if he smells like sweat, and you feel how hard he is. You rub up against him, and he sighs.

“Shower first, you said,” he reminds you.

“I take it back,” you bargain.

“Too late,” he says, pulling off his boxers and picking you up. You wrap your legs around his waist, and he carries you into the shower that way, and you stand in that position for a while, kissing while hot water cascades over you. Then he puts you down, commenting, “Shower sex sucks.”

“Why do you say that?” you ask, laughing.

“Somebody’s always cold.” He’s right. He’s standing under the shower head, soaping himself from top to bottom, so you aren’t directly under the flow of water, and you’re getting chilly. He rinses off, and pulls you closer, rubbing soap over you.

“I’m not cold now,” you tell him.

“I am,” he says, and you realize that you’ve traded places. He runs his hand between your legs, one finger pushing into you, and you grind down on it. He holds you in position with his other hand and circles his finger inside you.

His mouth is against your neck and he whispers, “God, Y/N, I want to fuck you.”

He pulls his hand away from you and laughs when you whimper. You dry off, or at least half dry off, and then you fall onto the bed, hands and mouths everywhere.

You pull back a little. “You’ve got a condom, right?”

He grabs for you. “Of course I’ve got a condom. Why do you think I brought the backpack?”

You start laughing. “Get it,” you tell him.

“Jesus, Y/N, you’re so demanding,” he complains, but he pulls a handful of condoms out of the backpack and throws them on the nightstand.

“Four?” you ask.

“Just in case.” He leans over you and starts sucking on your breast, flicking his tongue across the nipple. You arch your back up for more and he makes an approving noise. “You like that,” he says.

“Yeah.”

“Tell me what you like.”

“I like …” it’s hard to talk because he has started sucking your other breast. “I like your finger inside me.”

He gives you what you like, and then adds another finger. It’s even better.

“If we’re going to do this …” you begin.

“If? Shit, Y/N, you’re not going to change your mind, are you?”

“No. Oh, _God,_ no,” as he scissors his fingers. “I mean, if we’re going to be FWB or fuckbuddies, or whatever, it’s got to go both ways.”

By then his fingers are really wet and slip easily up to your clit, and all you want is more.

“Both ways?” he asks. He’s breathing hard, and you know he doesn’t want to talk.

“Equals,” you say. “If you want to fuck, I’m here for you, and if I want to fuck, you’re here for me.”

“Y/N, are you fucking _negotiating_ with me? Now?”

“Kind of.”

“Deal, then,” he agrees, his fingers moving back to spread you open. He’s on his knees over you, and you roll your hips up for him and spread your legs as far as you can. He teases you, the tip of his cock sliding back and forth, rubbing against your clit. “The thing is, Y/N,” he mutters, “I _always_ want to fuck.” He starts to push into you, taking his time. You want all of him inside you, filling you up and stretching you, but he doesn’t give it to you right away. He pushes in a little, then pulls back, does it again, then again, until you feel like you can’t stand it anymore.

You push your hips toward him and you’re saying “Please, please, please.”

He has his thumb on your clit, rubbing it with exactly the right pressure, and then he pushes his full length in, deeper than you thought possible, and then again, and you can feel yourself starting to tremble, and when he thrusts into you one more time, you lose control and fall over the edge, wailing, your hips bucking, as spasms rock you, while Daveed keeps moving, extending your orgasm until his own hits, and you wrap your legs around him to hold him to you.

A little while later, you’re under the covers, cuddled together, both of you barely awake.

“I knew it would be good,” Daveed says sleepily. “Thought I could see right through you.”

“Hmm?”

“You being all businesslike and all, but we’ve both been wanting this.”

“Well, I hoped.” You snuggle closer to him. “I wasn’t sure you felt the same way.”

“That thing you said,” he continues, “about being fuckbuddies.”

“Yeah,” you murmur. “It has to be fair. We both have to get what we want.”

He strokes your hair. “What if I don’t want to be your fuckbuddy?”

“Well, shit, D,” you say angrily, “this is a hell of a time to tell me.”

He kisses your neck.

“Stop,” you snap, trying to pull away.

His arm is around you, and he holds you tight. “I was thinking,” he says softly, “maybe instead of fuckbuddies, we could be something else.”

“What do you mean?” you ask him.

“Maybe something like dating?  Maybe you could be my girlfriend?”

You think about that. “Really?”

“Mm-hmm,” he says, kissing your neck again. You don’t pull away this time.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from a song that may be called "Don't Do No Good to Tell Me Lies" that Daveed and Rafa have performed. None of the information about a tour assistant's job is based on real knowledge. I just made it up.


End file.
